


never the same love twice

by cocopuffsx



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, M/M, Pining, idk im still deciding lol, magical realism maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocopuffsx/pseuds/cocopuffsx
Summary: 'He doesn’t know when it started, doesn’t want to look back at the beginning stages of Louis permeating his thoughts like syrup, drudging down his consciousness with sticky sweetness, but he knows it has something to do with the nights they spent together in Harry’s room. Their mothers were both on some local committee or another, and meetings in Harry’s family room meant that he and Louis were sent upstairs, sent up away to Harry’s world, to a hidden universe that no one else could touch'A coming of age story, where Harry finds himself falling utterly in love with his best friend, where Harry learns to fall in love with the world around him, and where Harry finally learns to love himself.





	never the same love twice

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first time writing a fanfiction EVER and I'm not sure if I'll get any views or feedback, but to anyone who is reading this, I APPRECIATE YOU and please leave comments! thank youu

chapter 1-

They met when Harry was twelve, in the unextraordinary way that most kids do, except their meeting was less of a chance encounter and more like a dose of pure luck, doled out by an angel who had breathed life into the Eastern winds and delivered a gift to Harry’s doorstep. He was in the living room, aimlessly watching his cat Ginger, who was currently clawing at the underside of their already-quite-clawed-up couch, when his mother announced the arrival.

“Harry, I want you to meet Louis”

When Harry looks back on it, any of the context behind their meeting loses value, pales in comparison to the moment itself. In the vaults of his mind, the stage lights dim, the captivated audience is washed out into a distant hum, the supporting characters retreat somewhere dark, somewhere unimportant to Harry’s own inner life. Because this is the moment twelve-year-old-Harry swears he’s come close to touching divinity, this is the moment he ascribes magic, meaning, music, to another person.

He’s looking into blue eyes right now in his living room, the type of electric blue that put the oceans to shame, the type of blue he never knew before could exist in real-life. Why had no one warned him that one day he might meet someone so beautiful it hurts?

We can call it idolization, infatuation, call it by a name that lends it less emotional appeal, but even looking back on it, Harry refuses to define it as anything less than sorcery.

\--

  
Thirteen year old Harry has developed a love for reading. His mom thinks it’s a sign of intellectual promise and ruffles his hair whenever she sees him nose-deep in some book or another. He doesn’t want to tell her his love of reading is simply an elaborate coping mechanism.

It all started when Harry was getting off a plane with his mom after a trip to New York. His tangled earphones were gently tickling his neck and he was in and out of an intermittent slumber as he trudged across the airport terminal. His iPod fell onto the floor with a clack that made him wince, and as he stood back up after reaching for it, he noticed a screen above him.

A long list of plane destinations and times sparkled above him in bright green, names of places he didn’t even recognize, places he perhaps would never recognize. Flight leaving now to Amsterdam, flight leaving in 12 minutes to Dubai. And here he was, dumbly standing in front of an array of options that he had never known of before. An array of options he never knew he had. As his mother tugged on his arm to urge him to move on, he realized these options weren’t really his to choose from, he was too young, but beyond that- he would never be able to satisfy his curiosity and choose all of them. Travel down all the paths in the world, experience heartbreak on every continent, see every wonder there was.

So he turned to reading because right now he was too young to even travel down any of these roads. So he turned to reading, and late at night he could at least pretend he was more than just one body, he could pretend that we are given our bodies and hearts more than once.

He doesn’t know when it started, doesn’t want to look back at the beginning stages of Louis permeating his thoughts like syrup, drudging down his consciousness with sticky sweetness, but he knows it has something to do with the nights they spent together in Harry’s room. Their mothers were both on some local committee or another, and meetings in Harry’s family room meant that he and Louis were sent upstairs, sent up away to Harry’s world, to a hidden universe that no one else could touch.

One night, Louis was looking through Harry’s book collection bemusedly, gently tracing his fingers on the spines of the novels that filled up an entire wall of the room. Maybe it was something about the way the warm lamplight colored Louis’ hair orange like amber, maybe it was the soft lilts of conversation downstairs that spilled into Harry’s room, maybe it was the moon outside, as entrancing as ever, that cast Harry into a spell. All Harry knew is that Louis’ side profile was like a sculpture right now, Adonis brought to life. All he knew was that enchantment was bubbling in him like a telltale sign of something ominous, and when Louis turned around to smile at him, Harry knew that later, when he would be reading under the covers, Louis’ face would be the one he associated with every protagonist. It was Louis’ hypnotizing rasp that would be the voice in his head, it would be Louis, Louis, Louis, from now, because when you come so close to seeing magic personified, you never ever want to let it go.

\--

  
  
Lately, thirteen year old Harry has been hiding away in poetry. You see, he’s been having nagging life crises that he tucks away in the corners of his journals and hides in the creases of his smiles whenever his mom asks him how his day at school was.

The start of 8th grade is strange, disorienting, mystifying to him. Harry can’t help but feel absurdly not like himself when he walks to his classes, when he sits down with his friends at lunch. And at the root of every thought is the realization that his parents have much more valid stresses than he. And if his friends are bragging about their lives and their girlfriends and if his friends laugh so loudly that sometimes he feels he can’t muster a fake smile, and if he sometimes feels so introverted and out of place with these people, so what?

(He’ll ashamedly admit that sometimes he’s able to convince himself that his inability to fit in with other people is a gift, that it's testament to the unique quality of his soul, but in reality, he knows he’s being too flattering to himself). All he really wants is someone who understands him, who can sit down and look into his eyes and help him extract his thoughts and see his emotions for what they really are.

Louis hasn’t been around much this year, as he’s starting 9th grade at a different school a couple of miles away. Harry shoves down any thoughts concerning this matter deep down, hides them away in his mind because he really, really does not want to go down that rabbit hole. He is not in the mood to psychoanalyze his childhood crush on someone who used to be his friend. (Used to?)

So in his journals, he writes down his thoughts as abstractedly as he can, writes about how he feels uncertain and confused, writes about how he misses the absolute certainty of being totally infatuated with someone, writes about how he feels so young and hates it because he doesn’t let himself take his emotions seriously, writes it all, and tucks it away under his pillow.

\--

  
Three months into eighth grade, Harry is finally at a point where he’s convinced himself that he needs to love himself first before he loves someone else, and that it’s a good thing Louis isn’t around as much. He’s taking his school assignments seriously, is practicing piano for two hours every day, has even made a couple of friends. In spite of all the progress he’s made, he can’t help but feel utterly relieved when Louis enters his life again, like he’s finally come back to what he was looking for all along.

Their mothers have ganged up again to tackle their newest project- reducing plastic waste in the community through persistent awareness campaigns. This means Louis, lovely Louis, finds himself in Harry’s room again. It’s been six months since they last hung out, and even though Harry knows it’s all temporary, the tremor of energy that builds up in him like thunder makes him feel so alive, so close to touching the sun, after months of uphill battles to just try and get through the school-year.

It’s just that Louis is living, breathing charisma, Louis is effortlessly captivating, Louis is magnetic in the way he speaks, his articulation piercing the room and leaving Harry hooked on the syllables that linger in the air. Louis is funny, always has a comment or a thought that spurs momentum in the conversation, Louis is intelligent. Harry watches his thoughts unwinding like thread on a spool and tries to stop them, but they’re a creature of their own and lead him down holes he’s terrified of. Because it’s one thing to look up to Louis and revere him, but it’s the aftertaste of insecurity that hits hardest. When Louis leaves and Harry overthinks their conversations, when Louis leaves and Harry wishes he could be cooler and better, when Louis just… leaves.

But for right now, Louis is sitting on his bed, absent-mindedly going through some books on Harry’s bed-side table. “You still like to read?” He asks with a smile on his lips, holding up Harry’s copy of ‘1984’.

Harry feels a genuine smile spring to life, it’s always so easy with Louis. “Still. Always, hopefully. Have you read 1984?” He asks, as if his entire heart isn’t waiting on Louis’ answer.

“Yeah, it was required reading for the summer…” Louis pauses for a moment, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. Expectation weighs in the air like humidity, Harry always finds himself feeling so vulnerable around Louis, perhaps because Harry’s emotions are worn like tattoos, and right now, his entire room is scattered with mementoes and parts of him that Louis actually takes the time to unpack.

‘This is going to sound strange but…’ Louis begins and Harry interjects before he can help himself, “No, I promise it won’t”.

Louis gives him a small smile, then continues, ‘Do you ever wish you had a seemingly insurmountable obstacle in life, one that was big enough to serve as a story-line in a novel? A conflict that’s so complex that it brings out the strength in you, that it actually tests your strength of character?’

Harry feels like time has stopped, like his heart is in his throat, like he’s finally stumbled upon a conversation that is so profoundly alive and vivid, and he’s so terrified of it slipping between his fingers that he’s going to just go for it. Without realizing, he reaches out to lightly put his hand on Louis’ wrist, breathing out, ‘Yes!’. He shakes his head, smiling, ‘I think about that all the time… like I don’t have an obstacle valid enough to justify my feelings, like I’ll never know my true potential unless I go through something as dystopian or mind-numbingly tragic as in 1984.’

Louis has broken out into a big smile, and Harry is so mesmerized, God. ‘Oh, first-world country woes… Aching for a suffering that brings out art in us.”

Harry can’t stop himself from breathing out a laugh, shaking his head with a big smile on his lips like an idiot, ‘Everything you said… it’s what I think, but so well articulated, so much more … effortless’ He says softly.

Louis looks down shyly, then looks back up to return Harry’s gaze. ‘Don’t give me so much credit’, he counters.

‘To be fair though, I think that someone like you, even if you don’t think you have obstacles valid enough, has art in you. Just the way you speak makes me think you have something to say.’ Harry says softly, hoping he hasn’t bared too much of his heart in the span of such a short conversation.

Louis is smiling even wider than before and Harry didn’t know that was possible, and he puts his other hand top of Harry’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘That is such a thoughtful compliment,’ he murmurs, his voice trailing away.

Later that night, Harry writes four poems, and if they’re all inspired by one specific person, no one has to know.

\--

  
  
The thing about Harry’s journals is that they’re worlds of their own. When he reads back on his past poems or entries, he feels like they’re describing a life that is much more beautiful than the one he currently lives. He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful for his existence, it’s just that there’s something to be said about the romantic, poetic lilt with which he writes, and the oftentimes unforgiving and droning nature of reality. Life in his journals is catalogued through poems about intense infatuation, overbearing feelings of loneliness, dreamy interludes about the future. Real life is the blaring sound of his alarm clock, is the itching weight of anxiety as he walks down crowded hallways, is the monotonous tone of his English teacher.

Perhaps that’s why he finds unparalleled joy in writing, because he can momentarily discard the weight of the day, and shed it in exchange of something more ethereal, something that transcends his current state of existence. Perhaps the reason he’s drawn to art is the same reason he’s drawn to Louis.

So he scribbles all his thoughts, lines them up in his notebooks, because to preserve your thoughts is to admit that you believe they’re worthy of preserving, and that sort of self-assurance is what Harry could use right now. Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts find themselves consecrated in ink, ‘ _Who am I becoming? And what will my soul look like when I am older? Each day adds new colour to me, but I wonder if the colors, every shade of remorse, anger, love- will blend into a murky tone, or complement each other, all at once, like sparkling city lights, or a starry night sky’_

\--

  
  
Louis is never a constant presence in Harry’s life, but Harry can’t find it in himself to care. School is dragging on these days in languid strokes, with days that cling to the back of Harry’s nape and refuse to shake off, time standing still as Harry earnestly wishes the hours in class would pass by faster. He tries to center himself and enjoy every moment, but he just can’t get over the fact that he doesn’t want to be in a classroom eight hours a day, five days a week. It’s something about the LED lights that string him out like taffy, it’s something about the humidity and the echoes of the hallways that blunt against his head, it’s something about the utter absurdity of him being forced to play dodgeball every day. He wants to be somewhere more alive, somewhere where there is art, and not on the level that his middle school can provide. He aches for literature that astounds him, he aches for music that bewilders him, he aches for films that make him think about the world, not just the bubble he lives in. So he makes the most of his free time when he cans, centers his attention on art when he gets home, loses himself in that which he actually cares about.

And on the days when he feels a little low because he doesn’t know how to voice his thoughts to others without feeling misunderstood or whiny, at least there is one shiny gift on the horizon, one name that fills his mind with light, one laugh that he replays on groggy days. Louis comes over on Sunday nights now, and Harry doesn’t think he’s as happy when they’re together, when they sit together on his bed and talk for hours, their voices perching onto each other and riveting into conversations that pulsate and vibrate with energy, their laughs intermingling in Harry’s room, scattering across the walls and touching every corner with the memory of their budding friendship.

They talk about the expanding universe around them, Louis’ blue eyes are bewitching when he murmurs about concepts as abstract and magical as the galaxies around them, Harry feels a celestial sort of thrill when they look at the moon together and stare at the traces of divinity in the sky, he feels like these are the moments when he is really alive. They talk about music, Harry lets himself unapologetically babble about his growing obsession with the piano, about how he can’t wrap his head around the fact that chordal progressions are so simple in nature, but tap into a part of us that seems so … ‘surreal?’ Louis offers, Harry nods vigorously, his smile threatening to overtake his entire face. They talk about life, Louis’ brow-bones carrying a dose of emotion Harry had never seen written on the faces of people before, Louis looks down timidly when he softly says, ‘Do you ever think our parents might not always have our best interests at heart?’. They venture into the uncomfortable, making steps towards thoughts so obscure and fleeting, Harry thinks he might’ve missed them.

And at night, Harry’s subconscious erupts into lush dreams, his mind replaying their conversations and portraying them into movies that leave Harry feeling deliriously happy. In one dream, Louis is in a field surrounded by birds, and there are three moons in the sky. In one dream, Louis is an artist in Renaissance Italy, and he paints the stars into the night-sky with delicious swirls of his paintbrush. Harry doesn’t tell anyone else about his dreams, doesn’t speak to them about the euphoria that lingers in his veins when he wakes up. He doesn’t want them to take away the one trace of magic in his life, doesn’t want them to taint his worlds of fantasy with their judgements or assumptions. He wants one other-worldly experience to himself, one part of his life to help him get through the days that extend before him like foreshadowing.

\--

  
It’s March that weathers away at the walls Harry’s built to protect his heart. His mother begins to talk to him in a clipped tone, talking to him about how he should be studying harder, and enrolling him in online courses to ‘boost’ his resumé. His father retreats into himself, returning from work, his eyelids heavy and carrying the day, and Harry no longer knows how to talk to him. His older sister is mainly cooped up in her room, studying for her APs or whatever responsibilities high-school has brought to her. He feels too old for his peers at school, and too young to talk to the adults he lives with.

It’s only Louis, living contradiction of a boy Louis, who makes any sense to Harry these days. Louis, with a raspy and delicate voice that Harry’s addicted to, Louis who is well-built and endearingly boy-ish, Louis who is just electric- dazzling and witty and teasing, but also soft and perceptive, quiet and intelligent. In his blue eyes, Harry sees the boy he wants to become, sees simplicity in a world of complexity, sees someone who just is.

Harry just hopes his all-consuming, blazing, blistering infatuation isn’t written across his face, hopes his body doesn’t give away his secret. He prays his eyes aren’t dilating as they speak, his cheeks aren’t coloured pink, his smile isn’t a little too eager. He agonizes over the texts they send to each other, typing and re-typing responses that he hope convey a level of informality and detachment.

Because look, Harry is in 8th grade, and Harry is having enough trouble figuring his life out, and he really, really, does not want to get into the question of, ‘Am I gay’ yet. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone about it, he doesn’t want to label it, he wants to ignore it, bury it into a deep hole in the sand and ignore it, and just focus on how happy he is when he’s with Louis. Plus, there’s no way Louis is interested. Boys his age are all silly and fickle, they all have their eyes on a revolving door of girls, gush about their newest conquests, and dreamily talk about chicks they’d like to bang. But then again, that isn’t Louis… right?

One night, they’re in Harry’s room, playing Scrabble, when Louis starts visibly fidgeting, nervous energy radiating from his fingertips. He’s been having family problems, that much Harry knows, but this seems different. There’s tension woven into his muscles, tautness around his jawline that spills anxiety into the room.

‘This is random, Harry, but…’ Harry looks up immediately, his chest thrumming with dread, like there are hummingbirds beating up against his throat. ‘I’ve been seeing this girl, for the last month.’

Louis’ voice is steady, unwavering, but his eyes reveal his discomfort. They dart away like he’s being cornered, and Harry immediately reaches out his hand to calm his friend down, running his finger gently against Louis’ thumb like how his mom did when he was a child.

‘But, I feel… nothing for her. I thought I did at first, but it’s been one month, and I just woke up, and realized, I don’t even like her. I don’t look forward to seeing her, it’s just one more thing I felt like I was supposed to do to fit in, and it just makes me wonder why we do all these stupid things to fit in, and if there’s more to life than this, if there’s more than just doing dumb shit to try to come across as cool, and if we’re too young to be actually living life because we’re still dependent on our parents, but then adults are like, nope, don’t grow up, because they’re always fucking stressed out, and they turn into these distant people, I don’t know, I’m overthinking, I just feel so lost and unfulfilled sometimes, and God, I know I’m priviliged, but I need more sometimes, more than this’ Louis voice has grown more and more broken with each sentence, lending them a quality of rawness that has Harry’s heart clenching. Tears dot the edges of Louis’ eyes, and his face, which is usually magnificent and royal like a Greek statue, is now crumbled.

Harry reaches out for him, enveloping his friend in a deep hug, running his hand on Louis’ back, muttering, ‘Hey, hey, hey now… hey…’ He lets himself say sweet nothings for a while as he breathes Louis in, holds him tight, tries to say the million things he’d like to say through their embrace. It’s only when Louis totally relaxes in his grip, that Harry pulls back and looks directly at his friend, whose eyes are still watery. Harry absent-mindedly thinks to himself that Louis is still so beautiful when he cries, his eyes becoming pools, the tears like translucent pearls running down his cheeks, reminiscent of oil paintings of water lilies.  
‘First of all, Louis, listen to me.. do you know how special you have to be to be so in tune to your feelings ? So sensitive, so articulate, so…’ he stops himself from saying beautiful. ‘It’s my favorite thing about you, the way you tap into your emotions. But you have to listen to them..’ Harry’s holding Louis’ hands now, squeezing them gently as he goes on, ‘you have to listen to what they’re saying to you. First of all, dump her. Second of all, this is life, this is as good as it gets, right?’ His voice is so gentle now, so brimmed with fondness he’s sure Louis can see right through him. ‘If anyone can make the most of it, it’s you. You are living, as we speak, you’re affecting people around you, you’re changing the way I see the world. We can try to find fulfillment in legitimate ways that don’t depend on people around you, but just screw anyone who’s making you feel like you have to fit in..’

Louis is looking up at him with a sort of peacefulness and attentiveness in his eyes that Harry wants to rest in forever, like each word Harry is saying is being held onto tightly and nestled in his mind, like a creature of its own in the beautiful landscape that is Louis’ consciousness.

‘If you didn’t feel the way you do about these sort of things, even if the feelings aren’t pleasant, honestly I don’t think I’d respect you as much as I do because of how you do feel. Wow I’m losing eloquence as we speak,’ Harry deadpans.

Louis actually _giggles_ at that, and Harry’s heart does that silly thing where it scrunches up again, and he lets himself be quiet for a moment, just smiling back at Louis. Louis looks back with kindness in his smile for a moment until he nods determinedly, rests his hand on Harry’s wrist, and leans in for a half-hug, mumbling, ‘Thank you Harry. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being such an amazing friend. You get me in a way I can’t explain. Such an intelligent soul, my little artiste.’ The last part is said teasingly as Louis playfully ruffles Harry’s hair.

Harry is reduced to blushes now at that last compliment, can’t stop himself from feeling giddy at the idea that Louis sees him as an ‘artist’ of sorts. He hides away his cheeks in his shoulder, then looks back at Louis, who’s smiling knowingly.

Before Louis leaves with his mom, Harry taps him on the shoulder, hoping his eyes convey the authenticity with which he speaks when he says, ‘Louis, you can talk to me anytime you feel… anything.’

Louis gives him a blinding smile at that, then nods gently, and leaves Harry’s room.

\--

  
They talk more after that night, texting non-stop, and Harry is reduced to smiling at his phone every time it vibrates in expectation of Louis. Life meanders on as always, but this time, there’s an undercurrent of meaning and direction that fills Harry’s chest with lightness when he wakes up. Louis in his life is like perpetually living in spring, opening your curtains and looking at the world as if it’s suddenly a newer, brighter place. The beauty he ascribes to his life is so personal and life-changing, he sometimes feels guilty that there’s a whole other part of him that his parents don’t know about. Sitting on the kitchen counter and making small talk with his mom, there’s always a persistent jab of guilt, a small part of him that wishes he could be totally honest with his parents. Open his heart to them, show them his poetry, gush about how vivid his dreams have been lately.

He wonders if such a relationship with his mom will ever be possible, knows in the back of his mind that most kids, as they grow up, retreat into themselves and rarely, if ever, open up to their parents entirely. It’s natural and healthy to have a world of his own that’s untouched by his mother, he knows that much. He just misses the simplicity of being a child sometimes, when you could talk about your day at school without a filter, where every emotion was at the tip of your tongue, because you were too young to fear judgement of your feelings.

Harry is the type of person who craves total vulnerability, who wears his heart on his sleeve. Maybe that’s why his friendship with Louis has depthened so quickly, light-hearted banter easily segwaying into personal revelations and anecdotes. But the closer he gets to Louis, and the more distant he gets from his parents, the more Harry feels pangs of wistfulness, a home-sickness for a family unit he never really had. He pretends it says nothing about how sensitive he is that he wishes his mother would just envelop him in a crushing hug and reassure him of her affection. Thirteen is such an arbitrary age, but somehow, he thinks it’s come to mean a turn from unconditional love, to conditional. He tries his best to be a good son, offering to help out around the house, being patient when his parents snap at him, staying ahead of his projects, but it’s always like he’s messing up somehow. Harry needs more, needs more light in his life, needs more serenity in his veins, and Louis is all of that, personified.

\--

  
The end of the year approaches slowly, then all at once, in the best possible way. It’s early June and optimism is laced in Harry’s veins as he sits next to Louis at an ice-cream shop. Even though school is over, Harry is relieved that they’ve been making time for each other. This is one of the first times they’ve hung out outside of Harry’s room, but it’s the type of unfamiliarity that excites Harry, leaves him hanging.

It’s here, in this ice-cream shop, swinging their legs on a stool and gulping down chocolate cones, that Louis, one-year older but somehow infinitely more wise Louis, casually quips, ‘Hey, now that you’re going to be a freshman, have you thought about college?’

Harry purses his lip in thought, turning his head to the side as he slowly says, ‘Am I supposed to start thinking about college?’

Louis turns around to flash him a kind grin, wiping his ice-cream stained fingertips on his grey jumper. Harry absent-mindedly notes how soft it looks, reflecting on the fact that Louis really is such a contradiction. He’s all soft limbs and soft cheeks and soft hair, but with such a sharp personality, such bite and defiant self-assurance.

‘I think so. People seem to have an obsession with getting into a ‘good’ college. Our counselors at school are always telling us to think about our future and start planning out our career aspirations,’ Louis drawls out, ‘and even though I think it’s a load of rubbish to become paralyzed by living in the future, it’s actually really fun to be like, thinking about it.’

Harry thinks for a moment, lets silence hover comfortably between them, then murmurs, ‘Like that feeling of ambition you mean?’

Louis nods, pauses to think, then says, ‘It’s fun to feel ambitious, but honestly, I’m not really sure what my end-goal in life is. Career wise, personal-life wise, anything wise.’ His eyes are more subdued now, and his voice is taking on that raspy earnest quality that Harry lives for.

Harry lets out a small laugh, then reaches out to pat Louis’ shoulder gently, hoping he hasn’t crossed a line when he says softly, ‘We’ll figure it out together?’ It’s much more of a question than anything else, a promise he’s offering to Louis, one that he’s hoping Louis will hold onto. He wonders if Louis knows how deep he’s in, how reliant Harry is becoming on this source of life sitting in front of him.

He feels like he’s let out a breath when Louis links their pinkies together, blue eyes glinting with an emotion Harry can’t put words to, as he says, ‘Of course’.

\--

  
  
Though the summer began as a beautiful promise, Harry finds that it grows harder, more opaque and more dense, as days after days of bad mood and loneliness find themselves following one another. Louis’ gone all summer to London with his family, and Harry is taking some summer courses in town. He actually doesn’t mind working over the summer, he finds a certain joy that comes from self-improvement and focus when he’s studying by his desk, finds tangible proof that he’s bettering himself and cementing his future.

It’s not the work, it’s not the oppressive heat, it’s not even just about Louis not being there. Except, maybe it is. All Harry knows is that there are days he walks back home and feels so unlike himself. More than ever, he sees a world of difference between the person he is around others, and the person he is when he’s left alone to sift through his thoughts. He hates it, hates it, hates how he walks back home and looks up at the beautiful gigantic trees above him, hates how he smells the fresh chlorphyll and sees beautiful bewitching flowers, and hates how he sees all of this beauty around him and has no one to talk about it with. He walks in a world of beauty, with a swelteringly enormous sky above him, and no one stops to crane their necks in the middle of the street. No one is there for him to ask, ‘How does the sky make you feel?’, because they’d make fun of him, but it’s all rotten and stupid because life is so beautiful and effortlessly poetic, and everyone takes it forgranted and no one gets Harry anymore, he writes hundreds of poems over the summer, searches for meaning in whatever form he can, Harry doesn’t even know what he’s missing, what he’s feeling, until he realizes one night in his bedroom, listening to a piece of music. The matter with him is that he needs more. Needs more life. Needs more moments that transcend the baggage of reality. Needs to express his adoration for art, for music, for poetry, needs to truly be himself in order to feel he’s living right.

His friends have been annoying him lately, they make small talk about the silliest of things and Harry doesn’t mind the silly things, he loves the silly things and laughing like an idiot, but sometimes he wishes they could talk more openly. He wishes everyone talked to each other the way they talk to their diaries, wishes that people were more inclined to share their inner monologues with others. He feels like he knows characters in books better than he knows the people around them, because at least narrators will be honest about their thoughts.  
He never felt this way so vehemently when Louis was around, because if Louis was anything, he was authentic. He says what he means, he looks at the world around him like it’s his first day on Earth, with that sort of childish wonder that Harry sees mirrored in himself.

On nights like these, Harry thinks he thinks too much. But he can’t help it, it’s just who he is.


End file.
